


So, So, Break Off This Last Lingering Kiss

by MlleClaudine



Series: Cophine [8]
Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, Canon Expansion, Desperate flirting, F/F, Gen, Hell is being hit on by a bro-dude while stuck next to him on a plane, Major Illness, Mild Smut, More like smut-adjacent, Not a lot of fluff in this one, Probably way more medical detail than any fanfic needs, Retail therapy was never more necessary, Shady science and moral ambiguity, We've all had that one ex..., What happens in Frankfurt doesn't necessarily stay in Frankfurt, You just know that Delphine's always been the HBIC inside
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-07-26 22:45:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7593100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MlleClaudine/pseuds/MlleClaudine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The life Delphine has been trying to build gets completely upended by Cosima's worsening illness and other, more sinister factors.  She can let them overwhelm her, or she can take control... but at what cost?  Begins shortly after Cosima's collapse in s02e08.  Feedback as always is greatly appreciated!</p><p>Visit my silly Tumblr thingie over at <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mlleclaudine">https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mlleclaudine</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Swiping my passcard, I let myself in to her lab, silently cursing the electronic lock's bleeping that seems abnormally loud in the deserted hallway. Catching the heavy door so that it whispers shut behind me, I pause for a moment to let my eyes adjust to the dimness. I can hear Cosima's breathing, the stertor and stridor making me wince; however distressing the sound, at least it is deep and even, telling me that she is asleep. The other sounds in the lab, the ever-present tireless rumination of its machinery — the hum of the sequencers, the subtle buzzing drone of the thermal cyclers, the whirring fans and occasional chirping of the mainframes — are constant enough to fade into the background, the high tech version of white noise.

I set my briefcase on her desk and slip out of my shoes and blazer. Clambering cautiously onto the narrow hospital bed to spoon her from behind, I wrap my arm around her too-slender waist, taking care not to disturb the pulse oximeter probe attached to her fingertip, the nasal cannula leashing her to the wall outlet and humidifier via the heated tubing of her high-flow oxygen circuit, and the PICC line dripping TPN into the basilic vein of her right arm. At least the Holter monitor is gone now, so I don't have to worry any more that I might accidentally pull off an electrode. Softly I press my lips to the side of her neck. Still deeply asleep, she makes a small murmuring sound. My heart turns over as her body instinctively conforms to mine.

Reaching for her paper chart, which contains the personal details and other identifying information that cannot be documented in her digital record, I skim the afternoon and evening nurses' notes. Marked hematuria, frequent hemoptysis, SpO2 at 92% and ABGs showing mild hypercapnia without oxygen supplementation. Her latest labs red-flag a worsening in her GFR and renal and hepatic function. A brief note from Nealon states that, based on this morning's survey films, he suspects that Cosima has new mets to her chest, though at least her aspiration pneumonitis appears to be responding well to antibiotics. Nothing out of the ordinary, beyond the observation that she had been given an injection of 68Ga-DOTATATE for her next PET/CT scan, which is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.

I frown slightly and reach into my pocket for my phone, making sure to mute it before sending my text: **Why the change in tracer?**

Nealon responds within seconds in typically terse fashion: `Less artifact from TPN`

With a cold trickle down my spine, I realize that he is right. Not only would gallium-68 improve spatial resolution and sensitivity in lesion detection in her lungs compared with FDG, it would also be unaffected by the slight elevation in her blood glucose caused by the supplemental nutrients she has been getting every night in the week since her seizure.

No sense in berating myself for the oversight. I can dwell on it, which would be a pointless occupation, or I can accept that of late, I have found it more and more practical and necessary to rely on Nealon's experience and judgment. The recent increase in my workload and responsibilities had been yet another factor prompting me to reluctantly concede that I am out of my depth when it comes to clinical management of her case. To his credit, he has limited his involvement to keeping track of her progress, rarely offering unsolicited advice or stepping in without consulting me except under extraordinary circumstances.

Cosima is not even supposed to be aware of his existence, much less that I have consulted with him about her. I am still uncertain of his actual status in Dyad's convoluted hierarchy but despite the rumors of his rather Mengele-like reputation, I cannot dispute that he gets results. I had overstepped my bounds in telling her about his management of Jennifer Fitzsimmons' case, but thus far there have been no repercussions — or perhaps Dyad and Topside have simply decided to turn a blind eye to this relatively minor breach of protocol.

Both the director of nursing and the charge nurse had come by to see her this morning. According to the logs they had stayed for nearly half an hour but noted in the record only that _After extensive discussion, patient was again adamant in refusing both a PEG tube and a port_. I have to smile even as I despair at the thought of the mule-like obstinacy that must have provoked such carefully worded language. On the one hand, I understand why she is being so intransigent: consenting to a feeding tube and a longterm portacath means admitting that she is an invalid, or rapidly becoming one, with all the ramifications that implies. On the other hand, I devoutly wish that I could knock some sense into her thick skull and hospitalize her for intensive supportive care. Cosima is frighteningly thin; even with the TPN on board in addition to whatever she manages to eat, she keeps losing weight at an alarming rate.

It is that same stubbornness that makes her refuse to be admitted to the hospital wing; hence the improvised setup in her lab. I have expressly forbidden her being disturbed while she sleeps — my clinical experience in a formal setting may be limited, but I have never seen the point of waking a patient to take vitals when what she needs most is to rest — and at least the lab is comfortingly familiar, almost her second home. But even with the call button affixed to the frame of her bed within easy reach and around-the-clock monitoring of her bio-metrics as well as of the lab cameras, the location is far from ideal if an emergent situation develops.

To that end, I have had the full trauma team on each shift run drills over and over again until they can all respond to a code in less than a minute and a half, which is at least marginally acceptable.

There were complaints in the beginning, I know, but Rachel had evidently made it clear to all Dyad's hospital staff that I had her tacit permission to carry on as I see fit where Cosima is concerned, quickly suppressing the grumbling and obviating the need to make threats. I am well aware of the newly guarded looks that dart my way, the hushed conversations that stutter to a halt when I pass through the hallways, the frankly sullen glares when I implement some new policy. I simply don't have the time or energy to care.

The frail form in my embrace stirs. She inhales sharply, the muscles of her abdomen, ribs and back reflexively contracting and winding up the tension in her body to culminate in an all-too-familiar series of rattling coughs. Gently I coupage her, then reach for a nearby emesis basin so she can spit out a large glob of blood-tinged mucus and rinse her mouth with dilute salt water. "Never let it be said," she says raspily, stroking her fingers over my arm wrapped around her, "that I don't know how to show a girl a good time."

Kissing her below her ear, I smile against her skin, breathing in her scent, which is only faintly sour. I make a mental note that I will need to find some way to wash her hair soon; perhaps the hospital hairdresser can lend us his portable sink. "Tell me who is slandering you in this way and I will avenge your name."

"My hero." Cosima chuckles, a coarse wet sound that turns into another productive cough; the humidified oxygen/air mix is definitely improving her mucociliary clearance. "You would look good with a sword, like Uma Thurman in 'Kill Bill.'"

"Too messy and gory. Can't I just shoot them in the kneecaps? That would be just as effective, and I could use the target practice."

"There's no honor in knee-capping someone, Uma. Besides, that's a dirty tactic, like something a terrorist or a mafioso would use, not my gorgeous French knight in shining armor." Turning cautiously and moving aside tubing and the mass of her dreads so that she can face me, she gives me a little crooked happy smile. "Hello, you."

"Hello, yourself." Cupping the curve of her cheek, I lean in to kiss her, avoiding the prongs of her cannula. Carefully I shift us around on the narrow bed so that she is draped over me in a more comfortable position. Holding her snugly with her head burrowing into my neck, I press my lips to her forehead, nuzzling at the tiny fine curling tendrils at her hairline.

"You're pushing yourself too much," she murmurs into my shoulder. "Go home, get some rest."

Fighting the tightening in my chest and gut, I hug her to me as closely as I dare. "I will. I just had to see you first. And make sure you're not giving the staff too hard a time. Besides, you know I don't sleep well unless you're trying to warm your ice-cold feet between my legs." Though tonight the temperature in the lab is turned up so high that for once her feet are actually warm; it's hot enough in here that I am beginning to sweat.

"That's me, professional grade A blue-ribbon-prize-winning pain in the ass." I can feel her smile as she nibbles at the base of my throat, making me sigh. "Hey, you didn't forget to feed Hubert, did you? Little dude's probably wondering why I haven't been bringing him dinner."

I slide my hand beneath her sweater and knit shirt and scritch the very tips of my nails in slow circles over the warm satin of her back, careful to barely skim the far too prominent knurls and ridges of her spinous processes and ribs. "I almost did," I confess. "But I actually stopped by a pet supply store the other evening. You should have seen the look on the cashier's face when I said I wanted to buy one mealworm."

She laugh-snorts against my neck. "That'll hold him for at least a week. You keep that up, he's going to be the world's fattest spider by the time I get back home."

 _ **If** you get back home_ , supplies the voice in the back of my mind before I can firmly quash it. "Would it be okay if I found him a new place to live? The Christmas tree is so dry now that it rains needles all over the floor even when I just walk by it; I'm going to have to take it down soon. It does smell nice, though."

"Yeah, that's cool. Thank you for indulging me about letting me keep it up. When I was a kid my parents always insisted on getting rid of our tree on New Years' Day, so ever since I've been living on my own I've always hung onto mine until they're like total fire hazards." Deftly she slips four fingers of one hand between the buttons of my blouse, stroking my belly lightly; my abdominal muscles twitch in response to her touch. "Where are you going to move him? It's too cold to put him outside. Anyway, he's a domesticated house spider now, used to getting his meals catered in. He's probably too lazy and too soft to survive in the wild any more."

"I was thinking of bringing him to Marcus. He likes spiders and seemed very keen when I mentioned Hubert to him."

"Dr. Marcus Nilssen, you mean," she corrects; we cling to one another, giggling like guilty schoolchildren. Tipping up her head, she kisses me softly. "That's fine. You've got enough on your plate without having to worry about orphaned and soon to be homeless spiders." Drawing little designs over my skin with her fingertips, she gives me a rueful smile. "You'd better get going, Dr. Cormier. Not gonna do anyone any good if you wear yourself out. Besides," she says, kissing me again, "wearing you out is _my_ job."

I smile against her lips, hoping she cannot see the tears that are threatening to spill over in my eyes. "Yes, it is. And the sooner you get better, the sooner you can resume doing your job." Moving gingerly, I slide out from beneath her, settling her on her side and arranging the various wires and tubes so they are not in her way. Bending to kiss her again, I caress the incredibly silky skin at her temple. "Do you need me to bring you anything from home?"

The corner of her mouth curls slightly. She turns her head to place a kiss on my palm. "Got everything I need right here, babe."

My suddenly thickened throat makes it difficult to swallow. "Sleep well, chérie. I'll see you in the morning."

"I'll be sure to tell my butler to show you into the front parlor right away," she mumbles, already half asleep.

I manage to keep my face stone-calm as I walk through the corridors, barely acknowledging the few people I pass, and all during the ride in the company car back to my flat. Only after I have mechanically put away my things and undressed for bed do I let myself fall apart, sobbing and wailing as I clutch futilely at her pillow.


	2. Chapter 2

" _Hyptiotes cavatus_. A female adult. She may be gravid, or perhaps just overweight."

After examining the little spider from every angle, Marcus sets down the jar precisely in the center of a space that he had cleared for it on the wide sill of the single small window in his cluttered office. The window provides an unprepossessing view of the massive membrane bioreactor processors behind the main research facility. He doesn't mind it, though; he has said numerous times that he likes to imagine the pathways and reactions of the waste water and effluent that are pumped through the treatment tanks before being discharged into the irrigation system that services all of the landscaping needs throughout Dyad's campus. The schematic of the MBR's ultrafiltration system that I had found in a box of old files and given to him is framed behind conservation glass and hangs just below the window at his seated eye level.

I suspect that he also likes that he has this entire section of the building virtually to himself, as no one else would willingly accept an office or lab space down here. Few people pass through other than the maintenance crew, leaving him undisturbed to work as he prefers. He does not own a cell phone; I am careful to always alert him on the intraoffice messaging system so that he is not surprised when I come to visit him.

"Hubert is a girl? I'll have to tell Cosima that she underwent a sex-change operation."

Not quite looking at me, he starts to clasp and unclasp his hands, a sign of mild anxiety. "You don't think Cosima Niehaus will be upset when she finds out?"

"No, no. She'll think it's funny. And she'll be happy to hear that Hubert may be a mother soon, although I will probably have a hard time dissuading her from naming all the babies."

He does not quite smile, but his pale face is visibly more relaxed and his hands are once again still. "That's good. The habitat appears to be more than satisfactory, Dr. Delphine Cormier."

"Your instructions were very detailed and thorough. Thank you very much for agreeing to take care of Hubert for us."

The slightly watery blue eyes slide upwards to briefly meet mine, then slide away again. "It's no problem. Her requirements are minimal and I'll enjoy her company."

"Maybe we can feed her the _Drosophila_ that have been colonizing the staff break room. Nothing else seems to be working to get rid of them."

"I would be concerned that a diet of stale jelly doughnuts and artificially sweetened coffee would not provide the best nutrient profile for the flies, much less for Hubert."

I chuckle softly so as not to startle him, inordinately pleased that he has gone to the effort to make a little joke. "Perhaps not. Although at least someone finally threw away that fruitcake that's been sitting on the counter since the Christmas party. If the flies had managed to eat any of that, they would probably be indigestible. Or possibly immortal."

That earns me a subtle twitch of the corners of his mouth, one of his few nonverbal reactions. As far as I know, Cosima is the only person at Dyad who has managed to make him actually laugh, though to this day neither of them will tell me what they had been talking about that was so funny.

"I also wanted to discuss your thoughts on those cancerous tissue samples I gave you. Do you think it will be possible to design an oncolytic virus targeted for the neoplasm?"

He stares at a blank spot on the wall. He is not ignoring me, I know, but rather letting his eyes fixate on a neutral element so that he can visualize and focus his thoughts more intensely. "Bearing in mind that these were only preliminary studies on a very small sample, yes, I think it is very likely that vaccinia can be successfully adapted specifically to your patient's needs. Obviously the most clinically relevant approach is to target and eliminate the cancerous cells, tumors and metastases wherever they are located in the body, so ideally this would be administered systemically. In addition, I believe I can engineer a variant that is capable of carrying therapeutic or diagnostic payloads directly inside the tumors."

"Marcus, that's wonderful! How soon can it be made ready for clinical trials?"

Ducking his head quickly, which makes the baby-fine strands of his white-blond hair flutter, he transfers his gaze to the floor. "I would require a great deal more information about your subject before I can answer that, as I am sure you know."

"I understand. I will make sure you get as much of the patient's history and recent labwork as I am able to give you." Moving slowly, I touch his labcoat-clad shoulder lightly and briefly. "I don't need to remind you that all of this must be done with absolute confidentiality."

"Of course. I destroyed the remnants of the tissue samples as you requested and all data were encrypted and recorded only on my personal computer, which cannot be accessed through Dyad's network."

"Excellent. I'll let you get back to your work. And thank you again. Cosima will be relieved to know that Hubert is in such good hands."

"Good afternoon, Dr. Delphine Cormier."

"Good afternoon, Dr. Marcus Nilssen."

As I walk through the sub-basement's hallways, the sound of my heels echoing loudly off painted but otherwise unadorned cinder block walls, I have to remind myself again that the ceiling is not _actually_ caving in on my head, but that is always the overwhelming feeling I get whenever I am down here. I heave an involuntary sigh when I reach the elevator; it is a no less confining space, but at least I know it carries me up into the light-filled atrium that leads to my office.

"I know what you mean, Doc," says the security guard as the doors glide closed. He punches the button for the top floor and swipes the card that will let us bypass all the other floors, whisking us upward directly.

"I'm sorry?" I turn to look at him, noting that his nametag says his name is Chris, that he is so solidly muscled that he gives the impression of being nearly as wide as he is tall, and that he already has a distinct five-o'-clock shadow at just past noon.

The big man hooks a thumb in the general direction I had just come from. "Dr. Twitchy. Never looks you in the eye, never changes the expression on his face. Always mumbling to himself and picking at invisible dust on his clothes. Guy gives me the creeps."

Normally I don't mind chatting with the guards, but at this callous and ignorant assessment something in me boils over and I round on him. Despite our considerable difference in height and size, I can actually see and feel him shrink back, as though he were physically pinned to the back wall of the elevator by the sheer force of my glare. " _Dr. Nilssen_ ," I say, spitting out the syllables, "is one of the most brilliant virologists in the world. He is helping me with a project of the utmost importance, something I would not entrust to anyone else in this entire multinational corporation. And quite aside from that, I consider him a personal friend. So you will refer to him respectfully, or you will find employment elsewhere."

His dark eyes widen hugely throughout my rant. Too late I remember Dyad's often justly deserved reputation for, shall we say, permanently relocating its former employees. I feel a little bad at the sight of the guard's ashen, sweating face, but not bad enough to apologize for my outburst. Stalking out of the elevator without another word, I fume all the way down the hall to my office.

At the end of a long, frustrating day analyzing data and lab results and coming to the same reluctant conclusion, I back up my notes, scan and shred piles of reports, and lock my desk and my office door. My heart already beating a little more quickly, my steps quickening, I just manage to keep from running down the stairs and across the bridge that leads to the old wing and Cosima's lab.

Even before I enter, I can hear the babble of familiar voices. Four faces look up when I push through the heavy door. Cosima's smile is slightly forced, and I recognize the signs of strain at the corners of her mouth and eyes. Felix and Sarah, seated on stools on either side of her bed, seem to be on the verge of starting a water fight with bulb syringes and a breached liter bag of lactated Ringer's. Scott says nothing, frowning and darting frequent worried looks at Cosima from his bench where he is monitoring the HEPES levels for a line of cells being cultured in the incubators.

Time for me to play the bad cop. Again.

"Sorry to break up the party, but I'm afraid that the three of you will need to give us some privacy. I have to run more lab tests."

"Leave it out, Delphine, we've only seen you draw Cosima's blood a hundred times," says Sarah as she flings a sticky ball made of wadded-up porous tape at Felix so that it lands in his hair.

"Oi!" He shakes his head and scrabbles with his fingers at his previously immaculate coiffure until the ball is carelessly flung away to scud underneath a table. "Sodding cow!"

I keep my expression neutral. "I don't need to draw blood today, but among other things I have to perform a saline-infusion sonohysterogram."

"And what's that when it's at home?"

Sarah and I will never be friends, I am afraid, but at least she is no longer overtly hostile when she speaks to me. Though that will almost certainly change in the very near future; I cringe at the thought of what I am soon going to have to ask of her. She is fiercely protective of Cosima, for which I am glad, but that is nothing compared to the lengths she will go to safeguard Kira. "It's a procedure in which a small amount of saline is infused into the uterus to improve the resolution of a transvaginal ultrasound scan."

She and Felix take a moment to digest that image. "You mean you're going to pump her uterus full of salt water and shove a probe up her twat so you can take a butcher's inside?"

"Crude, but essentially correct. You may stay if you like and if Cosima doesn't mind, but Felix and Scott — "

"Say no more," says Scott, hurriedly gathering papers into a messy pile and nearly overturning his chair in his rush to get to his feet. "I'm, um, gonna go home and give my cat a bath. Or something. Um. Bye." He hurries out, followed closely by Felix and Sarah.

Just before the door whisks closed, Felix pops his head back inside. "'Transvaginal ultrasound scan' isn't just another euphemism for lesbonic sex, is it?"

I roll my eyes and point toward the hallway. Snickering, he finally leaves. I throw the deadbolt behind him and cover the narrow window in the door with Scott's conveniently abandoned labcoat.

"Thanks, babe," says Cosima with a sigh, setting aside her laptop and slumping back against the raised section of her bed. "I love them both, but sometimes when you get them together it's like they instantly devolve into bickering eight-year-olds." She reaches her hand out to me with a tired but brilliant smile. Groaning with relief as I thankfully toe off my shoes, I squeeze her hand, then climb up next to her on the bed. Settling her across my lap and holding her snugly, I murmur contentedly as her body melds with mine. She snakes her arms around my waist and burrows into my neck. This close, I can hear the hiss of oxygen flowing through her nasal cannula from the portable system she insists on using during the day; it gives her more mobility but makes her much more prone to nosebleeds and soreness. "God, I missed you. Haven't seen you all day. Feels like forever."

"I missed you, too." Pressing my lips to her temple, I tighten my hold on her. "I'm so sorry, chérie, but I really do have to do the SIS. Marcus needs a fresh biopsy of your endometrium and each of your uterine tumors."

"Goddamn, Dr. Cormier." Softly she nips at the juncture of my neck and shoulder. "And here I was thinking that you were trying to get into my pussy for more indecent reasons."

"That's for afterward."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Perv."

"Your perv, though. Always."

"Damn right, you are."


	3. Chapter 3

"Dude. Are you fucking kidding me? That's awesome!" She wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me into a breath-stealing kiss, leaning at full length against me for support. Panting lightly, she grins up at me. "How about that. I'm fucking the director of the entire fucking Dyad Institute."

"Interim," I remind her, nipping the tip of her nose and resting my forehead against hers. Her hair is subtly redolent of her favorite shampoo and for a brief moment I am happy that she had felt well enough to actually take a shower this morning rather than having to grudgingly submit to another sponge bath, snarling at the hapless nurse the whole time. "And no more fucking on the premises. Too many eyes are going to be on us from now on." My arms slide around her waist, holding her tightly as I marshall my resolve. "I got the results of your latest PET/CT scan, chérie. It... it doesn't look good."

She snorts, a peevish but unsurprised sound. Huffing out a sigh, she burrows into my chest. "They're in my kidneys now, aren't they."

It's not really a question. I nod.

"Thought that might be the case. Lately I've been having this constant dull achy lower back pain and way more frank blood in my pee than usual. Fuckers didn't even ask for permission to move in."

"Cosima, you should have told me," I say hoarsely.

"Not like there's anything you can do about it, babe," she says. There is no accusation in her voice, only ironic resignation, but I feel my gut clench with apprehension and remorse anyway. "Can't exactly take an Advil. I can't function if I'm on opiates, and weed only helps for a little while." Tilting her head back to look up at me, one corner of her mouth curls ruefully. I note with a pang that the edges of her nostrils are starting to get raw where the prongs of the cannula rub at her skin, despite the moisturizing gel she applies diligently. "There's something else you're not telling me, isn't there?"

I place a soft kiss to her forehead and nuzzle my lips into the varied textures of her dreads. Taking a deep breath, I let it out shakily. "There are new mets to your lungs, and your cytokeratin antibody tests confirm micrometastases to your simple columnar and pseudostratified columnar epithelia."

"Goddamn." She clings to me for a long moment, then shakes herself, a full-body shiver like a horse being harassed by a fly. "So we're not even back where we started before the injection treatment. We're, like, a hundred yards behind and falling back faster with every step. I unknowingly exploited Kira and then spread my legs for an untested experimental procedure performed by a doctor I'd never met until five minutes before she had her face and hands practically up my snatch and it was all for _nothing_!"

"Chérie." My throat burning with unshed tears, I feel my heart pounding on the edge of panic. Gently I place my fingers under her chin and tip up her face, caressing the soft curve of her cheek to soothe myself as much as her. "Please don't lose hope. We have Duncan's notes and we can confer with him about his insights on the structure of your synthetic sequences — "

"You know as well as — hell, even better than I do that it could take months or even years to develop a cure. And you know damned well that I don't have that kind of time."

"Marcus is optimistic that his oncolytic virus will work. Even if it isn't the ultimate answer, at least it may help to slow the progression, target the tumors on a microscopic level."

"You gave him access to _all_ my data?" Her voice drips with scepticism. When I don't reply, she nods. "Uh huh, that's what I thought. You didn't consider that that's going to cause complications in his being able to tailor a vector for me?"

"I can't tell him about the cloning project, you know that." I swallow hard. "Which leaves us with only one possibility."

Her eyes behind her glasses are huge, reddened, shining with tears dammed by the thick lengths of her lashes. "Kira is eight fucking years old! I can't do that to her!" She draws in a juddering, hiccuping breath. "I can't do that to Sarah."

Holding her as tightly as I can without impeding her respiration, rubbing her back through the heavy knit of her sweater, I have no answer for her. _Perhaps **you** can't, my love. But I can. And I will, if that is what it takes_. "Let me at least approach Sarah to ask her about it. Maybe I can persuade her to let us go through with it."

Fat tears trail slowly down her cheeks. "How?" she says shortly, her voice thickened and raspy with the effort it takes her not to burst out sobbing. "Go up to her and say, 'Heyyyyy, Sarah, I know you have no reason to trust the corporation that created you illegally and, oh, by the way, _owns_ you but can we anesthetize your miracle science child and jab large-bore needles into her pelvic bones to harvest a bunch of her bone marrow that may or may not help your dying sister?'"

"We could offer for Kira to do PBSC donation instead. Peripheral blood stem cells," I say in answer to the mute query of her raised eyebrows. "At least that would be a less invasive procedure and she wouldn't have to be under general." Not looking at Cosima, I address the floor. "It could be risky. There's almost no precedent for using a pediatric donor for allogeneic transplant; the few cases I found in the literature involved donation to a sibling. Compared to bone marrow, PBSCs contain a tenfold higher T-cell content, which greatly increases the chance of acute graft vs. host disease. And we don't have the time to ramp up the stem cells in her bloodstream with filgrastim injections. Besides, recent studies show that apheresis may adversely effect thrombopoiesis as well as bone mineralization — "

"Then no. Absolutely not, no fucking way. If there's even like a _shred_ of the possibility of longterm complications for her, we're not doing it."

"Okay." Cupping her face in my hands, I wipe the tears away with the pads of my thumbs and then kiss her softly. "I'm sorry, chérie, I need to get back to work."

"Me too, babe. Scott and I are meeting with Ethan later — we've finally got everything set up to decode his floppy disks, and he's got some new ideas about synchronizing the amplification process with recombinant DNA in the BioXP 3200 system." Sniffling, she tugs off her glasses to swipe the sleeve of her sweater across her eyes and gives me a wan smile. "Talking with him is kinda creepy but fascinating. He's like a little kid in a toy store. Imagine if he'd had access to this stuff thirty years ago."

I do my best to suppress an involuntary shudder at the thought of what he and Susan might have wrought with modern equipment and computing capability.

Physically and emotionally spent, she trudges toward her bed, towing her oxygen tank and the portable concentrator. After helping her get settled, I make her a large mug of tea and offer her some more of the protein smoothie I'd brought from home this morning, then kiss her goodbye.

Feeling as though there were a weight planted squarely on my chest, I slump back into the chair behind Aldous' desk.

My desk, now.

The thoughts swirling through my head are spinning in a dozen different directions. Chief among the ones not involved with my worrying about Cosima: what is Rachel up to? What was her purpose in offering me the directorship?

Because I cannot deny that I want it. Head of a major entity renowned for cutting edge scientific breakthroughs that can and will literally change the world? Oh, yes, I want it. And here Rachel has dropped it into my lap years, maybe even decades sooner than I could possibly have expected.

It had been a very convincing performance, I'll admit. She had managed to inject something resembling warmth into her flat gaze, actual inflection into her voice. _"It's not a bribe, or a ploy. You're uniquely qualified. We could take this program in an entirely new direction."_

Very well. Time to test that. I nudge the mouse to wake the computer and quickly bring up the intraoffice messager. **Marcus. Effective immediately, you are to discontinue all other research and trials and focus only on developing the oncolytic virus for the confidential subject.**

` Understood. Congratulations on your promotion, Dr. Delphine Cormier.`

I raise an eyebrow. Rachel is nothing if not efficient — it's been just over an hour since she dangled her carrot in front of me. Obviously she had also broadcast the news company-wide at what must have been virtually the same time. After a moment, another message pops up on my screen:

`Is the subject Cosima Niehaus?`

I hesitate, then mentally shrug. Her latest test results would have decided me on this course regardless of my status. Besides, what good is power and position — however temporary — if I do nothing with it? **Yes. Confidentiality still applies until further notice.**

` Of course.`

Toying absently with a long-cold cup of coffee, I try to anticipate every argument and objection that Sarah and Siobhan are likely raise in response to my proposition for Kira. Assuming that they don't simply shoot me and bury my body in pieces around the city, I reflect mordantly. My reverie is broken by a knock on the door, which opens without waiting for my reply.

The woman striding through the doorway as though she owned the place is tall, slender, dark of hair and eye, radiating confidence and power. For a long moment, we merely regard one another, silently taking the other's measure. I can't help thinking that with her black designer dress, her onyx ring and matching earrings, and her too-heavy black eyeliner, her entire ensemble looks like a parody of mourning.

"Good morning, Dr. Cormier. I'm Marion Bowles, from Topside," she says at last. Her voice is deep, husky, quietly authoritative. "Are you ready to step up to the big leagues?"


	4. Chapter 4

"I wouldn't be here if it weren't her only chance."

Not for the first time, I think that Siobhan Sadler must be a formidable poker player. Her face might as well be carved from marble; the flat blue eyes miss nothing, give nothing away. Sarah's face, on the other hand, is full of tells, every thought and conflicting emotion playing out across it in a panoply of expressions.

_There. Sarah is the fulcrum. Persuade her and the others will fall in line._

"Give us a few minutes, Delphine." It's not a request. Siobhan tilts her head toward a door, different from the one through which I had entered. I nod in acknowledgement and step outside, finding myself on a deck facing the fenced-in yard at the back of the house. The deck is simply but pleasingly furnished with weathered wooden Adirondack rocking chairs and a small wrought iron table. Nothing is blooming at this time of year, of course, but the yard is neatly landscaped and well kept. A recently pruned dwarf apple tree sleeps in one corner, a pair of heavily mulched fig trees in another. Planter boxes straddling the deck railing contain an assortment of healthy looking cold-tolerant herbs: thyme, oregano, rosemary, dill, chives, mint and parsley. I pass my hand over the sturdy compact plants and sniff appreciatively at the familiar scents they release.

Sitting in one of the chairs, which makes a satisfying creaking sound when I push off with one foot to set it rocking, I snug my hands into my coat pockets and turn my face to the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees. It's enough to warm me despite the chill — the literal chill out here as well as the figurative chill inside the house.

Through the closed back door and windows I can hear the vague susurration of voices but not individual words. Sarah's, strident and impassioned. Mrs. S', low and unwavering and implacable. Benjamin's, taciturn as ever, interjecting only occasionally.

As the argument drags out, the tenor of Sarah's voice begins to change, becoming quieter and more halting. I fear that the longer it goes on, the more chance Siobhan has to wear down her resolve. Because there is no doubt where _her_ opinion lies.

The sound of light footsteps pattering along a side pathway startles me. "Hello," I say quietly. Moving slowly and smoothly so as not to appear threatening, I get out of my chair, sinking down to squat on the heels of my boots so that I am looking slightly up into the cherubic, incongruously serious face. Surreptitiously I search her all over, looking for points of resemblance to her mother. Perhaps the strongest is in the wide dark eyes, though they lack the permanently suspicious cast of Sarah's glare. Her hair falls naturally into loose silky ringlets, so different from Sarah's unruly mane; I find myself speculating about what her father must look like. "You must be Kira."

"Uh huh." She regards me solemnly. "You're Auntie Cosima's girlfriend. She showed me some pictures of you once."

Mirroring her gravity, I nod. "My name is Delphine."

One rounded shoulder shrugs slightly. "Mommy sometimes has girlfriends, too, but I don't think she likes for them to hang around for long."

I blink, and try not to look as surprised as I feel. "I see."

"Auntie Cosima says that you're really smart and really nice. And she says you're the prettiest girl she knows except for me, but she _has_ to say that because I'm her niece." She smiles a little shyly, dimpling her adorably plump cheeks. "I like your hair."

"Thank you. I like your hair, too. Euh, shouldn't you be in school?" I say, somewhat at a loss. I never quite know how to talk to very young children, especially ones who seem to be preternaturally self-possessed.

Kira shakes her head, a sharply decisive motion that makes her curls bounce. "It's noon break. Mrs. S got my school to let me come home for lunch every day because we live right across the street." She smiles again, more warmly and openly this time; I get a glimpse of charmingly crooked teeth. "You look lonely. Do you want to have lunch with me?"

The innocently generous offer tugs at my heart. "I would like that very much, but I'm not sure if your mother and Mrs. S would want me there. They... they're having a discussion right now."

"Oh." Something in her tone of voice tells me that she is intimately familiar with the kinds of discussions that require that someone be sent out of the room.

Heavy steps pound toward the back door, which bursts open, banging against the stop hard enough to rattle its glass panes. "Kira!" Sarah's face reflects relief mingled with anger and wariness. "You know you're supposed to come directly inside. Why isn't Eamonn with you?"

The small face lights up. "Hi, Mommy! Eamonn's out front. I was just talking with Delphine."

Sarah wraps her arms around her daughter from behind and hugs her tightly. "What were you talking about?" says Sarah not-quite-menacingly, though with an unblinking stare at me.

"Lunch," I say, careful to keep my expression neutral. "Nothing else."

Kira nods vigorously. "Can Delphine have lunch with us, Mommy? I like her."

Unconsciously or not, some of the tension bleeds out of Sarah's stance. I have the distinct impression that I have passed some sort of test. "I don't think Delphine can stay, Monkey. She has to get back to work. Don't you, Delphine."

I take the hint. "Yes, I'm afraid I have quite a lot to do. But I'm very glad to have met you, Kira."

"Me too." She extends her hand, which feels impossibly delicate and soft in mine; I shake it gravely. "Bye, Delphine. Can you come see me again?"

"Goodbye, Kira. I would love to come see you, maybe with your aunt next time. If it's okay with your mother and Mrs. S."

"'K."

With a last warning glance over her shoulder, Sarah shepherds the little girl into the house. I am surprised at how reluctant I am to see her go, even as the guilt and dread about my part in influencing her mother to involve her in a less than completely ethical procedure increase exponentially. Not knowing how long it will be before the family come to a decision and not wanting to hover, I decide to go back to the office, which after all is only a few miles away. In my car, I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. **Chérie, I don't think it's going well.**

` What do you mean?` she texts back almost immediately.

**I mean, I think Sarah is losing the argument. We need to convince her and Siobhan.**

` How? What should I do?`

What, indeed. Thinking of how exhausted Cosima had been when I had left her lab this morning, I suddenly have an idea. **Skype them, from your bed. Include Alison, too — from what you've told me about her, her maternal instincts may provide the impetus we need.** I hesitate for a moment, then add **Look as sick as possible** and hit Send.

There is a brief pause. `Who even *are* you?`

I am mostly sure that she is joking. Sometimes I wonder that myself lately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _See[“Orphan Black” science quibble #2: The ethics (or lack thereof) of pediatric bone marrow donation](https://mlleclaudine.tumblr.com/post/158029276438/orphan-black-science-quibble-2-the-ethics-or) for a rambling discussion on why using Kira as a bone marrow donor under these circumstances is unethical as hell. And just how desperate Delphine is that she pushes for it._


	5. Chapter 5

Silently cursing the barely moving rush hour traffic, with a long line of brake lights stretching out ahead of me all heading southbound on Weston, I cast a glance at the passenger seat where the insulated bag I'd borrowed from Cosima this afternoon rests belted securely.

The well padded soft-sided cooler prominently sports a cartoon figure that looks like an egg-shaped rabbit, with a smaller version of itself perched on its shoulder and a little creature by its feet that resembles a dust ball with enormous eyes and tiny spindly arms and legs. "Dude, you've never seen 'My Neighbor Totoro'?" Scrutinizing my clearly flummoxed expression, she'd nodded resolutely. "Right. Miyazaki binge-watch fest tonight. No arguments. Now go," she'd said as she pulled me down to kiss me from her bed. "And for fuck's sake, take care of Kira. Sarah will, like, totally lose her shit if anything happens to our kid."

Creeping forward another few feet, I grit my teeth and steadfastly ignore the driver to my right who is signalling and waving as he tries to move over into my lane. I make a mental note that when I finally do return the rental car and buy one of my own, it will have to have satellite traffic navigation.

Resolutely I remind myself that there is no need to panic. Kira's bone marrow is stored safely in sterile blood bags nestled under a cold pack. We have 48 hours in which to process it, and to begin Cosima's reduced-intensity conditioning treatment to prepare her for the transplant.

Squinting against the late afternoon sun slanting across my eyes, I check my watch. It has been 45 minutes since Dr. Parks finished the collection. She'd obtained nearly 500 ml of marrow, which means an RBC content of about 200 ml. If we can achieve at least 94% MNC and CD34+ cell recovery after volume reduction and red cell depletion, we should have a sufficient quantity of stem cells for engraftment, though probably not enough to cryopreserve for future use.

I am under no illusions that the transplant will effect a cure. What it will do is buy us time.

Maybe.

Assuming that Cosima's already dangerously compromised immune system tolerates the myeloablative therapy, and that the transplant actually takes. Also assuming that she doesn't develop respiratory distress or worsening inflammation of her airways or pneumonia. Or fluid overload, or thrombocytopenia, or further organ damage, or GVHD, or any of the myriad other potential complications.

My conscience writhes at the thought of all the medical and ethical shortcuts I have taken with Kira. No doubt the Canadian Paediatric Society Bioethics Committee would recommend that my license to practice medicine be revoked if they knew what I had done.

I think about Kira as she had looked when I left the clinic: still asleep thanks to the mild sedative administered once the propofol drip had been discontinued, her lashes brushing her babyishly rounded cheeks and her mouth slightly parted. The thickly padded pressure bandage affixed to her lower back had not quite covered up the bruises beginning to bloom around the row of small incisions at each of her iliac crests. If I believed in a higher power, I would pray that with luck and a couple weeks' time, those bruises will be the only consequences she will have to bear. I have to come to terms with the fact that I am ultimately responsible for any other problems that may arise thanks to the machinations which I set in motion.

Sarah had taken her eyes off her daughter only once, to hide her face when the first transplant aspiration needle gritted and crunched its way through cortical bone, slowly advancing with careful pressure and clockwise and anticlockwise twists until the tip of the stylet reached the marrow cavity. From the withdrawal of the first syringeful of marrow till the time Kira was taken to her room for recovery, Sarah had forced herself to watch the entire procedure, unflinching, silent tears unheedingly smearing her eyeliner into messy black smudges that Felix had finally gently blotted away from her stricken face.

My ruminations are interrupted by a jolting, rocking bump as my car is rear-ended. "Putain!"

So much for having to decide about when to return the rental.

I look first to the insulated bag, which is still safely belted into the passenger seat and appears to be unharmed; just to ease my mind, I peek inside to verify that the contents are indeed undisturbed. Cautiously I roll my shoulders and rotate my head, noting no unusual pain or tightness in my neck and back. I pull over into the emergency lane, turning on the hazard lights. In the rearview mirror, I see the other car doing the same.

I grab the bag, my purse, the kit with the remaining unused collection supplies and the few personal belongings I keep in the car and get out, my phone already in hand. The first call is to Dyad to have someone come pick me up, the next to my insurance company and then the rental company.

The driver of the other car comes panting up at a ponderous jog. "I'm so sorry, I didn't even realize my foot was off the brake, I — " He pulls up short, staring at me. "Oh."

Looking up from filling out the accident/incident report form I found in the glove compartment, I assess him with a jaundiced eye. Medium height, middle aged, his rather pudgy frame encased in a rumpled polo shirt and khaki pants, medium brown hair retreating into a tonsure, scraggly beard, hazel eyes blinking at me behind square rimless glasses.

"Ma'am, uh, miss, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I say shortly, continuing to jot down details. "There wasn't much of an impact. The airbags didn't even deploy."

With my phone, I take pictures from several different angles of the crumpled rear bumper and the deep dent in the trunk. He gestures at the damage. "Doesn't look too bad. I know a good body shop."

"I won't need it, but thank you."

We exchange insurance information and agree not to involve the police since he is admitting fault and there is no need to file an official report.

"Um. Delphine," says the man, who I now know is named Jim. "This might sound a little odd considering how we met, but, uh, would you like to get a drink?"

I raise an irritated eyebrow and give him my flintiest glare.

His round sweaty face flushes. "Or not. You probably want to get home to your kid."

"My... ?" I realize that he is looking at the cartoon bunny on the insulated bag. "Yes, she's probably wondering where I am."

"Okay." He swallows. "Uh. Can I give you a lift somewhere?"

"Thank you, but no."

With a last muttered "Sorry," he trudges back to his car and drives off. The tow truck sent by the rental company pulls up and in short order whisks away the car; I give it a mental salute and a brief apology that Cosima and I had never gotten around to christening the back seat as we'd intended.

Catching sight of a Tim Hortons a few blocks away, I reason that I might as well wait for my driver in there rather than on the side of the road. Inside, I buy Cosima a cup of their terrible coffee, of which she is inexplicably fond, and a 10-pack of assorted Timbits. The place is nearly empty, so I sit down in a booth near the window. Opening the little box, I spot an apple fritter-flavored Timbit on top of the pile and pop it into my mouth; chewing slowly, the sweet bite puts me in a slightly better frame of mind.

I call Dyad to have them tell the driver where I am, then send Cosima a text to let her know that I have been delayed, though not why; with everything else going on, the last thing she needs is to worry about me. Just then my phone rings. "Hello, Marcus."

_"Hello, Dr. Delphine Cormier."_

"I hope you have some good news."

_"Not quite yet, but soon, I believe. I do have a question."_

"Yes, what is it?" I say, trying not to let my impatience color my tone of voice.

_"I was searching the database for treatment modalities previously used in similar tumors and came across some rather extensive adenoviral-based gene therapy application studies that were recently run on a Dyad patient, identity redacted. Does Cosima Niehaus have an identical twin sister?"_ He pauses for a moment; I picture his hands clasping and wringing, his eyes darting around like a moth erratically searching for a place to land. _"Or perhaps I should more accurately say, **did** she have one?"_

Merde.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _See my Tumblr post entitled["Orphan Black" sci/med quibble: What not to do, bone marrow edition](https://mlleclaudine.tumblr.com/post/158217514563/orphan-black-scimed-quibble-what-not-to-do) for a rambling discussion on how many things are wrong with the way Kira's bone marrow is harvested in this ep._


	6. Chapter 6

" ... and then I thought of using a retroviral vector controlling transgene expression by pCLPG to harness the inducible nature of its tumor suppression and transcription... "

I shake my head, watching Marcus eagerly talking with Dr. Duncan, who appears to be listening to him intently. "I've never seen Marcus so animated before." Wrapping my arms more snugly around Cosima, careful not to dislodge the dripset running fluids via her PICC line, I brush a kiss over her temple. "You don't mind that I inducted him into Clone Club?"

"Sounded like you didn't have a whole helluva lot of choice." She eats her last Timbit, following it with a gulp of her coffee to which she had added a slug of heavy cream. Leaning back on her stool against me, she plays her fingers lightly over my forearm, making the tiny hairs stand on end. "I think Ethan has a new BFF. I'd have to do a shitload of research just to figure out what the hell species Marcus is even talking about right now. He lost me somewhere around the time he started in on the LTR of MoMLV. Hell, even Martin gave up hovering and ran back to Rachel's office to get away."

"I'm a little surprised that Ethan is so well informed. Marcus' field is very cutting edge, after all. The pioneering studies on viral vectors wouldn't have been started until well into the '90s, long after Ethan went into hiding."

"Hmmm," she says. "I wouldn't be so sure that he is. Haven't you noticed that sometimes he'll, like, zone out of a conversation, then when he's back from his little mental vacation he acts as if he's been paying attention the whole time? He's pretty good at covering up about whatever he's missed or doesn't understand — it actually happened quite a few times before I noticed him doing it."

The back of my scalp twangs like cello strings over-tightened to the point of snapping. If I am entrusting my beloved's welfare to a man who may be showing signs of dementia... "Well, you have spent far more time with him than I," I say cautiously.

One slender arm reaches up and behind her so she can knead the nape of my neck. "God, you're so tense, babe. Everything went well with the collection? Kira's okay?"

All but whimpering at the simple pleasure of her touch, I am cravenly glad for her changing the subject without my prompting. "Yes, the procedure went as smoothly as could be expected. She was still sleeping when I left the clinic. Sarah, Felix and Mrs. S are with her."

" 's good. She's an amazing kid. Thank you for looking out for her." Craning her head up and back, she pulls me down into a quick kiss.

Burrowing into the graceful curve where her neck meets her shoulder, I can feel the tensions and anxieties and irritations of the day melting into the feeling of the frail yet still comforting presence of her in my arms, the scent of her skin and hair.

"Houston, we are go!" says Scott. We look over at him. Eyes wide, he watches raptly as the continuous flow centrifuge of the COBE Spectra apheresis system gradually starts to separate Kira's bone marrow into its various components. He has never done this before, of course, but the system is fully automated and I know he has read and probably memorized the manual from cover to cover in preparation. Beaming at us, he gives us a thumbs up, which we return.

I drop a kiss at the tender spot below one ear. "I'm sorry, chérie, I need to finish some paperwork and meet with your radiation oncologist. Your TBI treatment plan has been mapped out and your lung blocks are being 3D printed. We'll administer your first fraction in the morning and then move you to the transplant suite."

She grabs the edge of the lab table to spin her stool around to face me. I bend to kiss her softly, lingering until I can feel her pulse through her lips. "At least it's a long way from the days when they would just nuke the patient in a room with a canary until the canary croaked." Threading her arms around my waist, she clings tightly to me; I rest my cheek on top of her head. "It's still going to suck, huh."

"Yes."

"Jesus, Delphine," she laughs reluctantly into my chest. "What happened to little white lies making the world go 'round? No comforting, no softening the blow, just, yes, it's going to suck?"

"Would you rather I pretended that there aren't risks and potential complications associated with the conditioning treatment as well as the transplant, and that you won't experience both transient and long-term side effects that may be extremely unpleasant?"

I feel the involuntary shudder that works its way through her much too slender body. "No way around it, is there."

"We know from Nealon's, euh," — my mind skates past the term _experiments_ — "research with Jennifer that the standard chemotherapeutic agents have little to no effect, so radiation is the only sure way we have to suppress your immune system and make room in your bone marrow cavities for the new stem cells. Because we don't have much time, the plan is to give you a very high dose of TBI, almost 14 grays, but hyperfractionated to spare your lungs and intestines." Burying my mouth in her hair, I nuzzle at the varied textures of her dreads. "The radiation itself doesn't hurt, but you'll be really tired and nauseated after the first day. Headaches and diarrhea are common, too. You'll be vulnerable to infection and bleeding. And after a few weeks you'll probably develop mouth sores and start losing your hair."

"Awesome. You can't, like, smuggle me a zip of weed? I just got in a shit ton of Skywalker Alien that should obliterate most of those side effects. And even if it doesn't, I won't care."

I can't help chuckling. "Sorry, chérie. No smoking unless you want to set off every alarm in your suite. I'll make sure to get you some CBD capsules, at least."

"Hrmph," she grumbles. "Pretty weak sauce. What about the special brownies I have in the freezer at home?"

"Only if you're a good girl."

She sighs, her breath warm against my skin through the thin material of my shirt. "So that's the short-term suckage, check. What about the long-term suckage?"

"You may need to take thyroid supplements for the rest of your life." Something lurches in my gut and squeezes my heart.

"However long that may be, yeah." As if sensing my disquiet, she clings more tightly to me. "What else?"

I take a deep breath, let it out slowly. "You will almost certainly be sterile, though that may not happen for months or even years after the treatment."

She is silent for a long while. "I'm gonna be stuck in the transplant suite for at least a few weeks, yeah?" she says at last.

"Most likely, yes."

"And there's gonna be, like, a whole team of nurses and doctors and techs helicoptering around me the entire time."

"Probably."

"And I won't even be able to fart or scratch my nose or ass without its getting recorded somewhere."

"Cosima... " I caution, fairly certain where she is going with this.

She tilts up her head to kiss me, tangling one hand in my hair to pull me closer. "Aw, c'mon, Dr. Cormier," she burrs, a growly, breathy rumble in the lowest register of her voice that tickles my ear. "Just a quickie. I need you so much and it's been, like, _days_ — I keep waking up in the middle of the night dripping wet because I can't help dreaming about you, missing the feeling of you holding me, thinking about us together. Besides," she says with a mischievous grin, "you're still way too tense right now. If you don't find a way to relax, you're going to have a psychotic break and they're gonna have to cart you off to a quiet room with nice padded walls and a buttload of all the really good drugs and then where will I be?"

I start giggling at the absurd implacability of her logic. "So sneaking out for illicit sex is your idea of prophylactic therapy? How very philanthropic and magnanimous of you, chérie. Don't you think our, ah, guests will wonder why we've suddenly abandoned them?"

"Dude, are you kidding? Marcus and Ethan won't even notice we're gone, and by this point Scott pretty much assumes that any time we're out of sight together, we're fucking like bunnies."

Resting my forehead against hers, I can't suppress a smile. Cosima is not the only one with vivid dreams, sense-memory playing cruel tricks in the night and leaving me dry-mouthed and sweating with my hands already moving downward between my legs before I am even fully awake. Despite my misgivings, my pulse starts to accelerate.

Unbuttoning the placket of her sweater so I can slide it off her shoulder, I detach her IV dripset and then flush, clean and cap her PICC line. Lightly I wrap her arm with a piece of self-adhering bandage to keep the hub covered and secured, then tug her sweater back into place. She leaves her oxygen tank behind, taking only the portable concentrator; hanging its strap over her shoulder like a purse, she reaches for my hand. As we amble toward the door, Scott looks up at us, blushes furiously, and immediately looks away. True to her prediction, Marcus and Ethan continue their vigorous one-sided conversation completely oblivious to our departure.

She leads me to her bottle farm next door, swiping her passcard and towing me inside without turning on the lights. I get a brief glimpse of the ranks of gleaming, looming microbulk containers of LN2 and CO2 before the door whisks shut with a muffled thud, leaving us in near-total darkness. Subtle echoes and air currents tell me that we are following the wall; my mental map of the room tells me we are moving toward the unused storage closet near the back corner. I hear the click of a latch, feel the whoosh of a door opening and then quietly shutting behind us. Inside, I bump my elbow against something metallic and unyielding — a heavy wire shelf, I quickly realize, grasping one of the corner uprights to steady myself.

"No cameras or mics in here. We check every day," she murmurs in my ear, making me shiver. I can feel the warmth of her length pressed up against me. Breathing in her unique scent, I listen to the rasp of her breath and the low hum of the concentrator.

I bring my hands to her face, as familiar with its contours as a blind sculptor. Greedily I absorb the silk of her cheek, the line of her jaw, the swelling and quivering of her lips. The pout of her lower lip begs to be bitten, lightly caught and held for a long moment with the fleeting trembling pressure of careful teeth. Her breath hitches as she opens her mouth to mine. The tip of my tongue seeks entrance, which is immediately granted; delicately I explore the roof of her mouth, delight in the light pressing and mingling of her tongue with mine. I taste her coffee, dark and sharp and faintly burnt, the sweet cling of donuts, the ever-present coppery trace of blood.

We fall instantly into an easy rhythm, brush and pass of lips, nipping and teasing of teeth, tongues slipping into a sinuous dance.

Needing to feel her skin, I pull upward at the hem of her sweater and camisole until she can wriggle her arms free. "Hang on, babe," she says, her voice oddly muted in this small space. I hear a faint hissing as she hands me the tubing of her cannula to hold, then the brush of fabric as she tugs her garments over her head and drops them onto a shelf. Giving her back the cannula, I waste no time shrugging out of my shirt and bra, no longer able to tolerate even the flimsiest barrier to the touch of her hands. "Better," she says with a small sigh of satisfaction as she drapes her arms around my waist.

"Much."

Cosima is warm satin over sinew and bone, nestling perfectly into my comparatively rounded curves like the last missing piece of a puzzle. The cold metal of the shelf is welcome now, counterbalancing the heat radiating from her touch. Bending to claim her mouth again, I kiss her hungrily, relentlessly. She answers me at every turn, her tongue invading and entreating, taunting my own. Slim fingers circle, tease, slide up and over my back, roaming at will.

I let my hands trail down the long slide from the sides of her neck to the rounds of her shoulders, lingering and caressing, then barely grazing the delineations between biceps and triceps and the tender insides of her upper arms, feeling her tense as she tightens her grip around me. Following the curve of her ribcage to the deep indent of her waist, I tease at the spot at her side that makes the muscles of her abdomen flex and roil of their own volition. "Breathe, chérie," I whisper in her ear, slipping one hand beneath the loose waistband of her pants to tickle the cleft at the base of her spine, making her squeak adorably.

Picturing in my mind's eye the fierceness of her expression, I imagine her lips parted in a half-snarl as I lower my mouth to the base of her throat. Her pulse so rapid and ragged I can no longer count it, she strains toward my fingers as they slip deeper, encountering no friction, only slick, pulsing heat. Undoing the button and zipper of her fly, I slide her pants and underwear past narrow hips and slowly, heatedly kiss my way down the well mapped terrain of her chest and abdomen until I can immerse myself in the intoxicating scent and taste of her desire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _See my Tumblr post entitled["Orphan Black" sci/med quibble: How not to do a bone marrow transplant](https://mlleclaudine.tumblr.com/post/158687052743/orphan-black-scimed-quibble-how-not-to-do-a) for a rambling discussion on everything that gets omitted in this ep about the process of preparing for a transplant._


	7. Chapter 7

_Idiot! Imbécile! Bête comme tes pieds!_

How could I have so stupid as to imagine for even an instant that Rachel Duncan had truly changed, that she was even remotely interested in her sisters' welfare? Or in anyone else's besides her own, for that matter. Empathy, sympathy and compassion require both a heart and a conscience; there is no evidence that she possesses either. In her cold-blooded view, love is of value only because it can be exploited.

I had been played, and had stepped right into her trap. And the worst of it is, she hadn't had to lift a finger. She had guessed correctly which way Sarah and I would jump and sat back, waiting for us to ensnare ourselves in her web so that all she had to do was swoop in and whisk Kira away and into her clutches.

No. The worst of it is that I have no idea what is happening with Cosima, and no conceivable way at the moment to contact her.

I shift in my seat, trying to relieve the tightening in my lower back. It is probably no coincidence that I am flying in Coach in the exact center of the middle section in the row closest to the bulkhead. No doubt this is Rachel's idea of a joke, yet another way to rub salt into my wounds.

The endlessly inquisitive little boy to my right has fallen asleep; I try not to think about how sticky he is from wiping his runny nose on his hands and every surface within reach. The young American businessman sitting to my left had been far more persistent and annoying until I had snapped that his wanting to "just say hello" did not supercede my right and desire to be left alone, jammed in my earbuds — the other end of the cord attached to nothing, as Rachel's goons had confiscated my phone on the way to the airport in Toronto — and coldly ignored his pretending to be wounded by my rudeness until he had finally given up.

Think, Delphine, think.

An ominous throbbing behind my eyes presages a nascent migraine. My gut churns with worry over Cosima. I rub my temples, trying to alleviate the tension that draws the muscles there and in my neck, jaw and shoulders taut as whipcord.

Perhaps her transplant will proceed as scheduled, but that faint hope is overshadowed by the looming suspicion that Rachel will withhold treatment to use as further leverage against Sarah. Marcus is working frantically on his oncolytic virus, but there is no reasonable way to predict either how long it will take him to tailor it or how effective it will be against the tumors that are all too rapidly metastasizing throughout her body. Or if he will even be allowed access to her to begin experimental trials.

Already I crave her touch, her smile, the sound of her voice, the scent of her skin at the delicate curve of her neck, the quicksilver nimbleness of her brilliant mind. Even her terrible jokes and quirky sense of humor. The thought that I may not see her again until it is too late twists like a knife in my bowels.

And then there is Kira, hidden somewhere in one of Dyad's ultrasecure fortifications, possibly even within Dyad's premises. While I suspect that she may undergo some tests and possibly even gentle interrogation, the chances that Rachel will actually harm or mistreat her are vanishingly small. Not for Kira's sake, much less Sarah's, of course, but because Kira holds within her body and genome so many potential keys that may unlock the mystery of the Leda clones.

At least Sarah had realized that I too had been Rachel's unwitting pawn in Kira's kidnapping, that my distress was genuine. I shudder to think how exponentially more vehement her obstreperousness and antipathy would have become had she believed I was involved in the scheme in any way.

I take a deep breath, hold it, then release it slowly, again and again, willing my body to relax and telling myself that there is literally nothing I can do to help any of them at this time. Likewise, I have no idea what awaits me. Therefore expending energy fretting about what has already taken place and what is to come is pointless and counterproductive. _Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof..._

There is a small measure of comfort that I am unlikely to be killed on a commercial flight. Surely not even Rachel would murder an entire plane full of innocent passengers just to be rid of me. So either she wants me alive for some reason, or — and it galls me to admit this is far more likely — she considers me so nonthreatening that I am not worth the trouble. Still, I have been careful not to consume anything on the plane other than the bottle of water I had purchased at the gate. I am probably being paranoid, but a few hours' minor privation will do me no harm.

The one thing I am absolutely certain about reverberates throughout my entire being like the sounding of a vast bell: I will swallow razor blades and gouge out my eyes before I ever allow Rachel Duncan to see me cry again.

Emotional and physical exhaustion finally claiming me, I nap fitfully until the popping in my ears and the additional turbulence from the extended wing flaps herald our descent. We touch down uneventfully, the plane gradually taxiing to a crawling glide. There is a beep, then the announcement on the overhead system from the pilot: _"Willkommen Sie meine Damen und Herren, in Frankfurt Flughafen am Main. Bitte bleiben Sie sitzen..."_

All around me bustles the usual rush and shuffle of people impatiently scrabbling for their bags from the overhead bins and lining up in the aisles, my erstwhile seatmate fortunately among them. I make no move to join the throng; instead I remain standing at my seat, grateful for the chance to stretch my legs and ease my back until the First Class passengers have departed and we are finally permitted to disembark.

Emerging from the SkyLine people mover, I navigate the signs through Baggage Claim pointing toward Customs, which I clear quickly as I have nothing with me other than my nearly empty purse. No one follows me. If I had a minder on the plane, there is a reasonably good chance that he or she is still stuck in line. Someone will almost certainly intercept me when I exit the terminal but for the moment I am relatively at liberty. Catching sight of a Capi shop, suddenly I have an idea.

I grab a cheap prepaid cellphone off a rack. Remembering belatedly that I have only Canadian money with me, I resign myself to paying an exorbitant premium for the exchange rate and receive a paltry few euros in change. I find a quiet corner along an almost deserted corridor where I can see in both directions and tear open the plastic shell; freeing the clunky phone from its packaging, I plug it into a nearby power outlet and boot it up.

Finding the Settings tab, I enter a fake name, one of my disposable email addresses and a random country of residence into the Telekom Hotspot login page and agree to Fraport's terms and conditions before I am able to access the internet.

Quickly I download the Tor bundle and open Orweb. Knowing that all calls and electronic traffic will be monitored at her end, I search for a stock image of an Adélie penguin, attach it to an otherwise blank email with the subject line _Lord W. sends his regards_ , then hit Send.

It is not much of a message, but at least Cosima will know that I have not "had a heart attack on a Dyad jet." That will have to suffice for now.

Per the instructions I had received on leaving Toronto, I head toward the Ground Transportation area. Still lost in thought, I am startled by almost literally running into the last person I would have expected to see.

I start to ask Marion what the hell she is doing here but quickly suppress the impulse. _Give her nothing. No overture, no indication of what you are feeling. Never forget that your being such an open book is part of the reason you are in this situation._

"Good evening, Dr. Cormier." One corner of her mouth purses; the dark eyes glint with something that looks very much like amusement. "There's been... a restructuring of command at Dyad."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _To be continued, though this one most likely won't be updated nearly as frequently as my Cophine smut-fest["The Cosima Sutra."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8242330/chapters/18887851) What can I say, smut is my default mode..._


	8. Chapter 8

_"Enjoy your oophorectomy. We will continue this when you're done."_

_"Rachel. I'll tell you."_

_"Good. Where is it? Where has he written it?"_

_"Right here."_

I watch with fascinated horror as Sarah stretches out a manacled hand — actual manacles on chains, not the padded Velcro-fastened restraints that would normally be used on a patient — to squeeze the discharge lever of the fire extinguisher mounted to the frame of her hospital bed, sending a pencil straight into Rachel's left eye. A one-in-a-million shot, conceived in naïve hope and executed in desperation, and yet somehow it had worked. Spectacularly.

Some completely separate part of my brain notes that Cosima must have used rifled tubing for her cleverly improvised weapon. And I had thought she was just humoring me while I had nattered on after one of my shooting lessons about twist rates and the stability of projectiles in flight.

On the widescreen monitor, Rachel staggers about and finally collapses to the floor, the eraser end of the pencil sticking out gruesomely from her sluggishly bleeding eye socket. She is in shock, not moving but clearly still breathing. The globe is certainly destroyed, and depending on how far the pencil had penetrated, she may have sustained significant damage to the orbitofrontal cortex.

_Good._

Marion taps on the mouse to stop the playback. "Notice anything interesting?"

I blink. Nothing in her voice or demeanor suggests that she is being ironic or facetious.

Going back over the security camera footage in my mind, I feel my eyes widen and my heart beat faster. Clicking on the progress indication bar, I restart the video at the point at which Rachel had shown Sarah the tubes of Kira's bone marrow to taunt her, then crushed them under foot.

I pause and open a new window focusing on her hand, double-clicking the still image to enlarge it and then resuming the video. Three 15-ml conical graduated tubes, almost completely filled with a dark red substance that splatters dramatically on the floor when Rachel stamps on them. "That's not Kira's bone marrow," I say, transfixed, going back again and watching the playback frame by frame. "The color and viscosity are close, but there's not enough volume — there should have been nearly 300 ml after apheresis. It could be RBCs with an anticoagulant, but there's no way to tell if it's actually Kira's. For all Sarah knows, it might as well be strawberry jam."

"Right." The dark eyes flash with what I assess to be cool approval. "If you were in Rachel's place, what would you have done with the marrow?"

"Amplify it," I say immediately, letting my gaze go out of focus as I give free rein to the flow of my thoughts. "She has to know that she is vulnerable to the same disease process as the other Ledas. It would be foolish to destroy even a fraction of something that could possibly save her life, and Rachel Duncan is no fool. I would store a portion of the original stem cells, then transduce the rest with HOXB4 and then dmPGE2 to amplify the largest possible population of totipotent hematopoietic stem cells and enhance their engraftment rate. Probably harvest Kira at least a few more times to be sure that I had enough stem cells in cryo for multiple transplants..." I trail off, my hand going to my mouth reflexively as I realize with disgust and consternation what I am saying. A fresh wave of despair floods through me at the reminder that Cosima will never receive the treatment she so desperately needs.

Regarding me with piercing directness, Marion nods slowly. "Rachel underestimated you, Dr. Cormier. So did Aldous." Her lips purse into a wry one-sided smile. "So did I. I think I'm going to enjoy working with you."

I deliberately keep my expression flat and closed. "I'm not entirely sure that's a compliment."

"You learn quickly." Her smile widens. "It's time you started to have a fuller appreciation for Dyad's role in Topside's organization."

***********************************************************************************************

We approach yet another featureless metal high-security door with yet another pair of heavily armed sentries stationed in front of it. As Marion is a civilian, the soldiers do not salute, of course, but every line of their bearing seems to snap to attention nonetheless. Without her having to say anything, one of the sentries swipes a keycard and then steps aside so she can press her fingertip to the reader of a biometric lock. There is a series of now-familiar beeps, the multiple thunks of massive deadbolt mechanisms being activated, then the rather anticlimactic sigh as the door swings open.

Unlike the last secured area she had shown me, which had been a typical looking laboratory in which various strains of bioengineered bacteria were being developed, this space is vast and mostly empty, echoing with strangely regular sounds that give the entire yawning chasm the eerie impression that it is breathing. Also unlike the lab, which hummed with purposefully hushed activity, it appears to be devoid of personnel, adding to the creepiness of the atmosphere. The dimness is interrupted at evenly spaced intervals by illuminated alcoves built into the wall. There must be dozens of them in here, I realize, peering into the distance.

Slowly I move toward one of the alcoves. Marion says nothing and simply follows a few steps behind me, the staccato _*tok tok tok*_ of her heels on the concrete floor marking a precise rhythm. As I get nearer, I can see the outline of what looks like a vaguely human shape enclosed in a standing position within a glass-fronted capsule that is filled with a slightly murky pinkish liquid. Electronic readouts flash busily. The enclosure bristles inside and out with wires and hoses, some of which are attached to the person it contains.

No, not a person. I grapple with the shock and revulsion reverberating through me, fighting my rising gorge. _At least I sincerely hope not._

In place of ordinary facial features, the... organism's indistinctly shaped head sports an array of eyes. Multiple pairs of eyes, lashless, closed, surrounded by bony orbits that appear to wrap around the back of the skull.

Marion reaches out to tap a control. All the eyes open at once, making me jump back with a gasp.

Despite my trepidation, curiosity gets the better of me; I lean closer to get a better look. The pairs of eyes are all of varying colors and sizes. On surface inspection, the corneas, irises and sclerae appear to be perfect. At Marion's prompting, I find an ophthalmoscope in a drawer. Choosing a pair of eyes at random, I examine each in turn, noting the red reflex, then following it in to view the fundus, optic disc and retinal vessels. With a penlight, I assess PLR, finding both the direct and consensual responses to be completely normal in each eye.

"That is... remarkable."

A gross understatement. The level of complexity in the genetic manipulation required to give rise to the ectoderm, neural crest cells, and mesenchyme that form the structures and optic nerve of each eye as well as control of intramembranous ossification in order to effect development of the bony orbits is no less than _staggering_.

Dazed, I drift over to the next alcove. Another vaguely human-shaped organism, though this one lacks a rudimentary head as no functioning cranial nerves are required for development and support of the lobes of liver tissue that float suspended in the capsule. Kidneys sprout in the next alcove, wide swaths of skin in revolting accordion-like arrangements fronding off the torso and limbs in the one next to that.

"Who are they?" My voice is unrecognizable, high and tight and shrill in this chamber of grotesqueries.

Marion shakes her head. "'What,' not 'who.' These were all grown from stem cells obtained via SCNT. Genetically engineered to be HLA-free and completely lacking in mitochondrial DNA."

"Universal donor organs," I whisper, realization dawning of just how significant the impact of this project and its ramifications could be.

"Yes, with almost zero chance of transplant rejection and no need for immunosuppressive drugs. This one in particular might interest you. Come." She walks away without looking back. I allow myself a moment of truculent irritation at her high-handed assumption, then trail after her.

Slowing as I approach, my eyes are riveted to the contents of the alcove's capsule. Lungs. Pairs and pairs of small but perfect pinkish healthy lungs.

I can almost admire how absolutely masterfully I have been played. Rachel's tactic of giving me the interim Dyad directorship is nothing compared to what Marion is baiting her trap with, sleekly confident that I will willingly walk into it. "I've seen enough. Get me out of here."

Marion acquiesces with a slightly amused nod, though I suspect that there is much more that she had intended to show me.

In the limo, we do not speak for most of the long ride from the military base back toward Dyad's headquarters in Frankfurt. "Who are they being grown for?" I say at last.

No need to specify which "they" I am talking about. "For anyone who can afford the cost of the transplant. And has the means and the connections to know about our program to begin with. A great many of our recipients are from Asia and the Middle East, places where regulations are... not as stringent as they are in the States, for example. And we have a fairly steady stream of Neolutionists who request specially modified organs such as eyes. White ones are popular, of course, or sometimes ones with cat-eye or slit shaped pupils."

"You allow _elective_ transplants for _decoration_?" I say incredulously.

"They're perfectly functional and can be configured for 20/20 vision or better." She shrugs a slim shoulder. "If some entitled preening imbecile wants to pay for the procedure, why shouldn't the program benefit from his vanity?"

"I take it that you are not a believer in Aldous' philosophy."

One sculpted eyebrow arches. "I'm not a believer in any 'philosophy' that's rooted in erroneous sophistry and I very much doubt that you are, either. What the Freaky Leekies never seem to understand is that almost none of the alterations one may make to one's body or physiology actually confers heritability. They are no more 'evolving' than, say, a Lego model in which you swap a blue brick for a red one."

Marion seems content to let me brood in silence. I consider the implications of everything she had shown me, at once horrified and intrigued at the possibilities. The organ-farm "program," as she calls it, tramples every ethical principle that has been instilled in me from the beginning of my scientific training. It's monstrous.

But then so is the disease ravaging my love's too-frail body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The organ-farm alcoves are partly modeled on ST:TNG's Borg, but this chapter also owes a debt to "Parts: The Clonus Horror," which is a surprisingly decent low budget B movie (don't miss the MST3K version, either), as well as its almost direct ripoff, "The Island." Certain branches of the military do have a well documented history of government-sanctioned unethical human experimentation but as far as I know, there is currently no U. S. military installation in Frankfurt, so I felt free to cast fictional aspersions like daisies. In OB's world in which human cloning exists, I posit that none of this is out of the realm of possibility..._


	9. Chapter 9

"May I make a suggestion?"

I look up, startled out of the reverie I've drifted into while staring through the restaurant's floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lights of the city and the slow-moving boats plying up and down the Main far below. Setting my fork aside to stop myself from poking absently at the remains of my scallops, I arch an eyebrow. "Since when in our so very lengthy and intimate acquaintance have you hesitated to state your opinion or dispense advice?"

"Touché." Marion inclines her head and salutes me ironically with her wine glass. Precisely half of her venison entree remains untouched on her plate. I am no stranger to game meats, which must be cooked no further than à point because they are so lean, but hers is verging on saignant; I find the pool of crimson juices weeping out from the cut surfaces a little unnerving to look at. She gives me a penetrating look. "Are you familiar with the concept of thin-slicing?"

Taking a sip of my Viognier to give me a few seconds to organize my thoughts, I nod. "My psychology courses in college touched on it, and I read the Gladwell book when it came out a few years ago. I felt that it has some validity — the heuristic mental shortcuts we use in processing our first impressions assessing intelligence, likeability, trustworthiness, even attraction often happen in a matter of seconds and can be surprisingly accurate. But there are limitations."

She nods in return. "People tend to ignore other complexities in favor of affirming their initial impressions. In most cases, gathering more information about a person serves only to reinforce the original, necessarily biased judgment. Take, for example, the outfit you're wearing."

Reflexively I look down at the charcoal gray knit Henley top and black slim-fit pants I had hastily purchased along with a few necessaries at H&M yesterday. Unexceptional, but unexceptionable as well, I had thought.

"I know they're not your usual clothes," she continues, "but they're of a piece with what you tend to wear: casual, comfortable, with a certain style but not trendy." The dark eyes travel down my neck, where the unbuttoned placket of my shirt leaves my throat and a wedge of my upper chest exposed. "Vulnerable. Soft." Her direct gaze returns to hold mine. "Those would be my initial impressions if I were meeting you for the first time just now. And I would be wrong, but that cognitive bias would continue to stretch and distort my opinion of you and any further interactions with you."

The dark eyes are unfathomable, unreadable. Watching. Waiting. I smile wryly, acknowledging the effectiveness of her coup droit. "'Ognuno vede quello che tu pari — '"

"' — pochi sentono quello che tu se,'" she finishes. The corners of her mouth relax almost imperceptibly and she sits back in her chair, finishing her wine and regarding me half-lidded.

Why am I not surprised that she can quote Machiavelli?

Grudgingly admitting that she is right, especially given my abrupt if still nebulous change in status at Dyad, I find myself the next morning aboard the TGV Est. Leisurely absorbing a luxurious breakfast, I watch the landscape speeding by. The train is nearly fully occupied, and yet I have an entire Premier club cabin to myself, courtesy of Topside. Service from the attentive yet unobtrusive attendants is briskly efficient, anticipating my every request and leaving me with nothing more taxing than deciding whether I should take my coffee sitting at the wide burlwood conference table by the window or lounging on the narrow but comfortable sofa along the wall.

Marion is on her way back to Toronto in order to deal with the fallout from Rachel's... deposition, leaving me to my own devices to acquire my new wardrobe. Or perhaps _armor_ would be a more appropriate term.

To that end, I have been given a VISA Infinite Eurasian Diamond Card imprinted with my name and no stated limit on what I can spend. "Let's just say the discretionary budget for certain purposes is, ah, malleable," Marion had said with the smallest twitch of her lips when our driver had dropped her off at the airport.

Freed of restrictions and even watchdogs — where after all would I go under these circumstances that they could not find me? — I had decided on a whim to go to Paris. Frankfurt may have designer shops and a fashion scene to rival many major cities, but Paris, I know backwards and forwards. Paris is home, though my situation is considerably different now than it was in my student days.

Pulling out my new phone, a sleek, incredibly lightweight international model made of curved glass and brushed metal, I tap in Cosima's number but hesitate before I press Send. How much can I tell her without compromising her? Dyad is in upheaval but I am under no illusions that she and the other Ledas are any safer just because Rachel is no longer in charge. And all her calls and other communications are almost certainly still being monitored.

My heart beats faster as I listen to the dial tone. Cosima doesn't usually pick up for an unfamiliar number while she's at work and sometimes won't check her voicemails for days. If she doesn't answer...

_"Hello?"_

The release of the band of tension constricting my chest is such a relief, I nearly weep. "Chérie?"

_"Oh, my god,"_ she whispers. _"Delphine?"_ Her voice cracks, and I can hear her sniffling. _"You're alive."_

"So it seems," I say, trying to keep the tone light. "Are... are you well?"

_"I'm okay. Well, not **okay** okay, you know, but I'm feeling a little better. Where are you? When are you coming home?"_

"I... don't know yet, chérie," I say, deliberately eliding her first question. "Marion is bringing me up to speed on some matters that involve both Dyad and Topside. How are you doing?"

_"Babe, Rachel, she... she destroyed Kira's bone marrow."_

Cold writhing fingers of guilt twist into my gut. "What?"

_"She had Sarah chained to a hospital bed and was going to take out one of her ovaries. She used the marrow as leverage to pressure Sarah into giving up information about Duncan and then the fucking bitch went ahead and stomped on it, right in front of Sarah. Everything we put Kira through... it was all for nothing."_

I close my eyes, listening to her crying softly and unable to keep from seeing the images from the security camera footage that Marion had shown me. My heart literally hurts, radiating pain through a roadmap of arteries with every beat. Not just for her perceived loss of the treatment that could have prolonged her life, but also because despite that her first thought, her most pressing concern is for Kira. I have never felt so small and despicable. "Oh, Cosima," I say, inadequately.

_"God, I miss you. I'm living at Felix's for now — being at Dyad 24/7 was getting kinda creepy, and I didn't want to stay at your flat because everything about it just reminded me that you weren't there."_

"I'm glad you're with your family." I take a deep juddering breath. "Please don't lose hope, chérie. We're going to look for answers and work toward finding your cure."

_"You'll forgive me if I'm a little sceptical at the moment,"_ she says dryly. _"I'm sorry, babe, gotta go — Nealon's got me scheduled for some more tests."_

"Okay. Je t'aime, pour toujours et à jamais."

_"Love you too."_

Disconnecting the call, I flop back into my seat for long moments, trying to regain my equilibrium. When I am a little steadier, I reach for the phone again and call the nameless, faceless but supremely competent factotum Marion had assigned to facilitate anything I might require. After explaining to her the nature of my wants and needs, she sends me a detailed itinerary and map of likely shops and departments stores, including a fitting at Charvet and an appointment tomorrow at the David Mallett Salon with M. David himself.

Despite myself, and all my misgivings, I am impressed. _I could get used to this._

A limo awaits me at Gare de Paris-Est, quickly whisking me to the Dyad-owned flat near Place Vendôme where I am to stay for the duration of my trip. Standing at the curb while the driver retrieves my scant luggage from the trunk, I stretch my back and legs, enjoying the slightly wan sunlight on my face.

"Delphine?"

I still know that voice down to my bones. I would know that voice in my sleep. A voice I had never expected to hear again belonging to someone I had never expected to see again.

I turn slowly, careful to keep my expression neutral, and appraise my interlocutor up and down. "Hello, Édouard."


	10. Chapter 10

The girl stood in the doorway, literally glowing in the harsh light slanting into the recovery ward from behind her.

"Close the damned door!"

She started, her eyes huge. Realizing the barked command was directed at her, she moved forward out of the airlock leading from the entrance module and pulled the door to with some effort. "Pardonnez-moi." The voice was soft, mellifluous, obviously French.

Irritated, the doctor looked up from the patient he was examining. "Unless you're fluent in Sinhalese or Tamil, all hospital personnel here speak English." She nodded curtly in response.

Still seeing spots from the glare of the sun, he squinted in order to get a better look at the intruder. Tall, slim, poised like a deer on the verge of bounding off into the woods in panic, she had a large backpack slung over one shoulder and a bottle of water in her other hand. Her wavy hair was up in a practical though rather messy bun, leaving the long slender slightly sunburned neck exposed; damp-darkened curls lay plastered to her forehead, counterpart to the sweat rings under her arms. Like most new arrivals she had probably taken the six-hour train trip from Colombo to Kilinochchi, followed by an hour-long taxi ride to the field hospital here at Mullaitivu. Despite her obvious fatigue and the dustiness and rumpling of her travel stained clothing, the girl was still stunning. "Who the hell are you?"

"My name is Delphine Cormier. I'm a volunteer for the summer. Léon — euh, Dr. Léon Archambault assigned me here."

Great. He wasn't immediately familiar with the name but it rang a bell, one of the higher-ups having to do with the CMH Board of Directors. Doing a favor for a family friend, he supposed. "What sort of experience do you have?"

The smooth throat rippled as she swallowed. "I've just completed my second year of the MD/PhD program at Paris-Sud."

"God save me from idealistic mother-wet nurslings," he muttered under his breath, though clearly still within her hearing. He could see her react to his words, her back stiffening and her lips tightening into a straight line. "What was your undergraduate focus?"

"Microbiology with applied immunology and parasitology."

One eyebrow arched even as his mouth dipped in dark amusement. "Well, that's somewhat useful and relevant, at least. Can you do a manual CBC and diff, run a urinalysis, type and cross-match blood for transfusions?"

"No." He was pleased to see that rather than apologizing or growing defensive the girl seemed to look more determined. If she was angry, she hid it well. "Not yet, anyway. But I'll learn."

Appraising her again, he nodded. "Congratulations. You're now a laboratory and medical technician. Go see the logistics coordinator for your bunk assignment and report back here as soon as possible. We're short-staffed and I'll need you to assist me in surgery."

"But I've never — "

"Good, then you won't have any bad habits to unlearn. Édouard Martel," he said, extending a hand. She hesitated a moment, then shook it firmly. "Welcome aboard."

***********************************************************************************************

By the end of her third week, Delphine could draw blood from even a dehydrated neonatal patient, do a cephalic, saphenous or jugular venous cutdown if needed for placement of an IV catheter, identify signs of Dengue fever, babesiosis and other bloodborne pathogens in the steady stream of patients that came through the hospital's doors, and assist unblinkingly with the most gruesome of surgical procedures. Édouard had to admit that he was impressed and early on began to seek her out over most of the regular support staff and longterm volunteers, even changing her schedule so that their shifts always coincided.

Today she was assisting while he performed a below-knee amputation on a former surrendered militant who had sustained a blast injury and subsequent chronic infection of his foot and ankle. Even though the 25-year Sri Lankan civil war had ground to a bloody halt months ago, the CMH field hospital along with similar installations run by MSF and IMC still treated thousands of such injuries, most of which had never received proper medical attention.

She had already prepped the site and set out the contents of the amputation kit on the Mayo stand, kneading a stick of bone wax to get it pliable while he scrubbed in. At his direction, she applied the tourniquet, doubling back the buckle and recording the time. Carrying the circumferential incision to create equal anterior and posterior flaps of skin and muscle, he quickly incised through soft tissue all the way down to the bone. Without being asked, never balking despite the fact that her hand was nearly touching necrotic tissue that literally _heaved_ with maggots, she firmly grasped the leg proximally and distally to the amputation site to give him ample traction to stabilize the limb while he cut through the tibia and fibula with slow back-and-forth motions of the Gigli saw. In the time he had been stationed here, he had performed dozens of similar operations but this was one of the worst he had seen. And dear God, the smell...

"You did well today," he told her over lunch when they finally had a break in the caseload. They sat at one of the tables outside the canteen, the stifling late afternoon heat rendered almost pleasant under the shade of a large ironwood tree. As had become their habit when off duty, they spoke in French, breaking the unwritten hospital rule.

There it was, the faintly sardonic lift of her eyebrow that said validation was unnecessary, thank you very much. She was the most damnably self-possessed young woman he had ever met. "I did my job."

"And you did it well," he repeated. "What field are you going to specialize in?"

"Immunology. I intend to go into research."

He blinked in surprise. "Not trauma? You have the aptitude, and the temperament."

"Are you saying I'm clinically detached?"

The beauty spot below her lip seemed to be designed to draw his attention to the slow curl of her smile. Small sunbursts crinkled at the corners of those extraordinary eyes. She was laughing at him, he realized, which pleased him; usually she was so very serious. "On the contrary. You project calmness and competence in highly stressful situations. And you relate well to the patients. Even when there is a significant language barrier, somehow they trust you, which is enormously helpful in getting them through what can be painful or incredibly unpleasant procedures. That's an invaluable skill, and not necessarily one that can be taught. Emergency medicine would seem to be a natural fit."

Delphine shook her head; idly he watched the honey blonde curls bounce. "Perhaps, but it is not where my passion lies. I've been endorsed by a host lab at l'Institut de Maria Sibylla Merian to start my fellowship as soon as I've completed my doctorate."

Blowing out a puff of air, he slumped back in his chair. "You're an ambitious one, aren't you? If you don't mind my asking, what are you doing here?"

"I'm neither an adrenaline junkie nor a masochist nor a bleeding heart romantic," she said dryly, acknowledging the widely recognized psychological makeup of the vast majority of CMH's staff. "My uncle Léon suggested this as a way to get practical, hands-on experience in a way I never could in Europe or the States. He said I needed to spend some time away from the ivory tower, and I figured he was right. I didn't expect to — well, 'enjoy' is probably too strong a word for it, but finding out that I can handle myself in this kind of environment has been... enlightening." Patting the pocket of her scrub top, she pulled out a packet of Gitanes and held it out to him; with a nod of thanks, he took a cigarette, cupping his hands around the flame of the lighter she proffered him before she lit her own. They smoked in companionable silence for a while, blowing plumes up into the canopy of blue-gray leaves and tapping their ashes into the remnants of food on their metal trays.

"How about you?" she asked after a while. "You could be making a hundred times the money with far more prestige as a trauma surgeon back home, without the heat and humidity and mosquitoes. Not to mention the lack of privacy and social life and having to adhere to security regulations at all times."

Édouard shrugged. "Maybe I _am_ an adrenaline junkie and a masochist and a bleeding heart romantic," he said lightly. "I don't know. I've been here long enough that I suppose I'm a lifer now."

To his relief, she didn't pursue her inquiry further.

***********************************************************************************************

"Hey, Cormier. You awake?"

Delphine had come to enjoy her bunkmate's rough and no-nonsense but friendly manner, which was refreshing and frankly a relief compared with the catty cliquishness of much of the staff toward the volunteers and other short-termers. Peg Sharpe had served with distinction as a U. S. Navy nurse; after retiring with the rank of Captain, it hadn't taken her long to find civilian life stifling. Humanitarian mission work had called to her; its inherently unpredictable nature drew its indoctrinated ranks together with bonds forged in a crucible of blood, filth and chaos, similar to her experiences in combat. She had left behind a loving partner in Wisconsin but, she said firmly, she had no other regrets. From the beginning, Peg had taken Delphine under her wing, teaching quick-and-dirty but effective techniques gleaned from twenty years of dealing with casualties under every sort of condition imaginable. In the younger woman she had found a ferociously intelligent, capable and deeply appreciative pupil. "Yes."

The springs of the overhead bunk creaked and the entire frame shifted. There was enough leakage through the tent canvas from the compound's powerful tower lights for her to be able to see the silhouette of Peg's rumpled head as it popped over the edge to peer down at her. "Are you sleeping with him yet?"

No need to ask which "him" Peg was talking about; in the weeks she had been here, Delphine had spent virtually all of her working hours and a good deal of her free time with Édouard. "No. Why?"

White teeth flashed in the dimness. "There's a pool going. I just thought I'd try to get the scuttlebutt straight from the source."

A _pool_? _Scuttlebutt_? Delphine made a mental note to look up the terms the next time she had a moment in the computer center. "He's handsome, certainly. And I wouldn't mind a, a... what do you call it? A no-strings affair. But he doesn't seem to be interested."

"Not interested?" Peg snorted. "Honey, a half-blind pig tripping on mushrooms could tell that he's interested."

"Then why... ?"

"You want my guess? I think you intimidate him."

"Me! I'm just a nobody med student. He's the one saving lives."

"Maybe. But you won't be a student forever, and from what I've seen of you, I'd feel pretty good betting that your career trajectory is going to skyrocket once you leave here. Whereas his... well, let's just say word has it that he's here because he can't get work anywhere else."

"What do you mean?"

"He used to have privileges at one of the biggest hospitals in Lyon. From what I heard, he was named in a negligence case and the hospital paid out a 4.8-million euro settlement rather than go to court, since French law allows civil suits to be filed as criminal complaints."

She felt as though she had been punched in the gut. "Meaning he could have served time in prison had he lost the suit."

"Yep."

"Do... do you know any details about the case?"

"Nope. But there's one other thing you might want to know about him, in case you do plan on taking him for a roll in the hay."

"What is it?"

"Before my friend Janice left for home when her most recent tour was up, she slept with him. Had her eye on him for a while, you see. Figured he'd be a nice going-away present." Peg extended a hand, waggling her pinky finger. "She said he's hung like a hamster. Said she could barely tell when he was inside her."

***********************************************************************************************

"So let me see if I have this right," said Sophie, swiping her tongue around the rim of her coffee mug to get every last trace of cocoa-dusted whipped cream. "This is the first time I've seen you since you got back from Sri Lanka because you've been so busy with school and he 'wants to keep you all to himself,' but he's leaving for a four-month stint in Sudan because he got tired of sitting on his ass on your couch since the only job he's been able to find here is a part-time locum tenens position. And you're okay with this?"

Sipping her second espresso, Delphine regarded her best friend wryly. "Thank you for putting the most cynical spin possible on things, as usual."

"You could pack two weeks' worth of clothes in the bags under your eyes. He's stressing you out."

"School is stressing me out. I'm taking three full graduate level classes and two extra lab rotations on top of the regular med school curriculum — "

"Bullshit. School doesn't stress you out. You fucking _love_ school. You always have. School doesn't make you chain-smoke and break out in craters."

Guiltily she stopped her hand, which had been reaching toward her purse for another cigarette. "It's been a little tense lately," she admitted. "Part of the problem is that my place is so small. And this isn't exactly the best location for a trauma surgeon. It would be easier for him to find a job in Paris."

"Last I checked, he was a grown-ass man. No one told him to leave his CMH posting and follow you halfway around the world. And besides, it's only a 40-minute train ride down here from the city, so what's stopping him from looking for a job or an apartment there?"

Their last argument had been precisely about that. "We'll figure it out."

"Now that you're actually going to have some room to breathe, maybe." Tilting her head, Sophie narrowed her sky-blue eyes. "Is he any good in bed, at least?"

"Sophie!" she hissed. Hastily averted heads of nearby diners pretending not to pay attention surrounded them on the outdoor patio. She leaned forward on her elbows and dropped her voice. "He's not bad. He has lovely hands."

"Now there's a ringing endorsement."

"And he was very open when I introduced him to, euh — "

"Butt fucking?"

She felt herself blushing. "Yes."

"Let me guess: he's all about rogering you up the back door but won't let you peg him."

"He says he needs some more time to get used to the idea."

"The last guy you dated wouldn't fucking shut up about how amazing you were with a strap-on — "

"Sophie!"

Her friend waved at their server to flag him down. After they paid, they strolled slowly over to the train station a few blocks away. "Listen, Cormier, you know I love you, right?"

She smiled crookedly and nodded.

"I'm probably the last person who should give relationship advice. I mean, look at Daniel. He changed his major six times before dropping out his sophomore year and who knows when the last time he actually finished one of his paintings was. But he's crazy about me. Does Édouard love you?"

"He needs me."

"Not what I asked. Maybe I'm reading it wrong, maybe he's an amazing guy and I just need to get to know him. But I'm pretty sure I don't have to ask if you love him." At the station entrance, Sophie pulled her into a hug before kissing her on both cheeks. "You deserve better. You know that, right? Call me any time, okay?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _CMH, or the Corps Médical Humanitaire, is my made-up version of Médecins Sans Frontières, used mostly because MSF doesn't take short-term volunteers (except for specialty positions such as surgeons and anesthesiologists) and they certainly don't take med students who have no practical experience. The CMH facility is based on[MSF's really cool inflatable hospital design](), which is modular so it can be set up in three days and configured as needed._


	11. Chapter 11

"You look wonderful, Delphine."

"You look... " I hesitate, biting my tongue on the word _diminished_ , though that had always been the case any time he was out of his element. In the field, with little more than basic equipment, a shoestring budget and colleagues who valued expedience and results over meticulous technique and strict adherence to protocol, Édouard was capable, assured, dynamic. Away from that environment and in a formal clinical setting, though, the transformation was almost like a flipping a switch: the man I had admired became almost instantly hesitant, indecisive, defensive. Examining him with a critically dispassionate eye now, I note that his thick dark hair is greying at the temples, an aesthetically pleasing feathery effect that reminds me of the ticked coats of some hunting dogs. The lines around his mouth are carved more deeply than I remember and give him the petulant air of one who feels that he deserves appreciation but does not expect to get it. He looks sallow and slightly paunchy and every bit and more of his 45 years. Many people would still consider him handsome, I suppose, but I find myself marveling that I could ever have found this man attractive. " ... the same," I say at last, keeping my reply deliberately ambiguous.

"How are you? It's been, what, almost three years now?"

Three years since I had completed my Immunology fellowship and accepted a position at Dyad, a thrilling prospect that offered seemingly limitless opportunities for research and an unimaginably extravagant salary with benefits to match. Three years since he had declined to follow me to Toronto, citing among innumerable reasons his unwillingness to undergo the lengthy, painstaking process required to validate his medical credentials in Canada. Three years since I had walked away from an increasingly joyless relationship and shed the shackles of an engagement that almost everyone in my small circle of well meaning but maddeningly, willfully undiscerning family and friends had regarded as the inevitable conclusion to what they insisted on seeing as a storybook romance.

Three years of cynically measuring each of my subsequent relationships with a complex cost-versus-benefit calculus, leaving me wholly unprepared for how quickly and how completely I had fallen in love with Cosima.

"Yes. I'm very well. And you?"

"Not bad, not great."

"Where are you working these days?" A safe enough question, as he is in scrubs.

"I was on staff at Hôpital Hôtel-Dieu until the emergency department closed last year. Now I rotate between two different branches of Clinique de Santé over in the 8th and 9th. Regular schedule, no after-hours calls. It's not a bad living."

I take care not to let my reaction show. That a trauma surgeon with his experience and temperament is employed at a walk-in family care facility, probably administering booster vaccines and patching up scraped knees, comes as something of a shock. "Are you still affiliated with CMH? You used to get restless if you didn't accept a new posting every few months." The realization that his semi-regular absences were one of the main reasons we had stayed together for so long had been yet another nail in the coffin.

His mouth twists into a familiar half smile that does not quite reach his eyes. "No, my girlfriend hates my being away for more than a few days. I... we have a child, a son. Lucien. He's two."

 _You certainly didn't waste any time after I left, did you?_ "That must have been quite an adjustment. You never wanted children before."

For a second his expression softens and warms, and I get a fleeting reminder of the personality that had once drawn me to him. "It was a surprise to me as well. Nadine — that's my girlfriend — and I got careless on a camping trip one weekend and we realized she was pregnant not long after. Nadine was pressured by her family to go through with it. They made her feel that she might not have another chan— that it was something she 'should' do. I was conflicted at first, as you can imagine."

I certainly could. Neither of us had ever voluntarily spent much time around babies or children, so any interaction with them tended to be incredibly stilted and awkward. Whenever we'd come back to our apartment after having dinner or going on outings with friends and their families, he could rant on for hours about what a thankless, monotonous, exhausting, irritating and oppressive job it must be to have to cater to such selfish, loud, messy creatures.

"She didn't have the easiest pregnancy, and for the first few months after he was born it seemed like he never slept, just screamed all the time. But we finally got past that and now I have to say he's amazing. Here, this was from when he was about six months old." Pulling his phone out of his back pocket, he swipes through an album to show me a picture of a smiling, chubby cheeked infant with Édouard's near-black eyes and unruly shock of hair; a suggestion of his cleft chin and square jawline is blurrily echoed in the neotenic features. The baby is cradled on the lap of a woman, presumably Nadine. She's pretty in a nondescript way, a little heavyset, with long mouse-brown hair. She is also quite a bit older than I would have expected.

"He's adorable," I say dutifully, though I think privately that, like all babies, he looks like Winston Churchill. "Congratulations."

"Thank you. What about you? Are you with anyone now?"

"Yes. No children, though," I say with a flippancy I don't quite feel. "But maybe someday."

And I realize with an ache in my heart that I do mean it. That I can envision a future life with Cosima, healthy and strong and whole. I might be personally ambivalent on the matter of children, but if she wants them, I will support her to the hilt and love them for her sake. _But first I have to get you well, my love._

He clears his throat, bringing me back from my thoughts. "Would you like to meet Lucien? I'm on my way home for lunch; our apartment isn't far. Perhaps you could join us, then we can catch up?"

"Thank you, but I have a great deal I need to get done. I'm in town just for a couple of days and I'm afraid I don't have time."

I see him noticing for the first time the Mercedes and its driver, who is waiting stolidly by the curb with my bags. Up go his eyebrows. "Yours?" he says, tilting his head. I nod in return. I can almost see the questions and trains of thought running through his mind. Finally curiosity wins. "You're still with Dyad?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps I'm in the wrong line of work after all. I had no idea that staring at bacteria and worms through a microscope all day warranted a chauffeur on overseas trips," he says. His tone is blithe but his eyes have gone flat and unreadable. His face is a far too familiar palimpsest of jealousy and entitlement and bitterness. An icy frisson of déjà vécu slithers into my gut.

But rather than making me queasily anxious, I am almost giddy with delight to discover that he no longer has the power to use emotional leverage to manipulate me. Plumbing the depths of my feelings, I find that my overwhelming reaction is indifference.

"I'm not a research associate any more." I level my gaze at him. "I'm the interim director of the Institute. Now I really must be going. Goodbye, Édouard." Turning on my heel, I walk off without a backward glance.


End file.
